


Arrested

by silentdescant



Category: Pentatonix, Superfruit
Genre: Alternate Universe, Amorality, BDSM, Beating, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Gags, Handcuffs, Humiliation, M/M, Murder, Police, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2017-01-10
Packaged: 2018-09-13 20:34:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9141223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentdescant/pseuds/silentdescant
Summary: As Scott draws closer, he takes in the ostentatious fur coat, brilliantly white and fluffy, gathered around the person’s shoulders.“This is the LAPD, turn around slowly,” Scott says.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> How this transpired: Allie posted a pic, Jen posted a prompt, and Freya told me to write it. It was a group effort.

There’s no answer to Scott’s pounding at the door, even after repeated warnings, so he backs up a few steps and takes a running start, slamming his shoulder into the door so it splinters and swings open. The apartment is pristine, every surface clean and sparkling with expensive knickknacks and weird art pieces. Scott has his gun drawn and raised but there’s no movement, no sounds, nothing as he steps into the main room.

He explores quickly, peeking into the rooms only long enough to ensure they’re empty, and finally comes to the bedroom. The door is open, and on the opposite wall, the balcony door is open too. There’s someone out on the balcony, leaning against the railing. As Scott draws closer, he takes in the ostentatious fur coat, brilliantly white and fluffy, gathered around the person’s shoulders.

“This is the LAPD, turn around slowly,” Scott says.

The person turns, revealing a familiar face. Scott thinks his name is Mitch; he’s made appearances at red carpets and in tabloids, and Scott thinks he’s one of those socialites who’s famous for no reason other than looking beautiful. And he does look stunning in person, with his smooth skin and perfectly arched eyebrows, and the way he holds a glass of champagne and his phone with long, elegant fingers.

The blasé expression, the polite curiosity at Scott’s presence, makes Scott hesitate. His stance weakens and he lowers his gun a few inches. “Are you aware someone just fell from this balcony? To his death?”

“It was self-defense, officer,” Mitch replies with wide eyes. He bats his dark, fluttering lashes, looking the picture of innocence, but the tone of voice betrays the lie. It’s almost like he’s teasing Scott, like Scott’s in on his joke.

“Do you have a weapon?” Scott asks.

“Baby, all I’ve got is a drink. There’s a whole bottle in that ice bucket over there, if you’re thirsty.”

Scott holsters his gun and steps out onto the balcony. The breezy night air chills him, and he watches Mitch shrug the fur coat closer around his exposed throat with a pang of longing.

“Are you saying you killed him?”

“I told you, it was self-defense! He came at me and I pushed him and he fell, it was a total accident.”

Mitch meets Scott’s stare and takes a long sip of his champagne without breaking contact. There’s a challenge in his eyes but a playfulness too, and the smoothness of his voice, the faint quirk of a smile invites Scott to play with him.

“You don’t seem too upset,” Scott says hesitantly.

Mitch shrugs and finishes his champagne. He swivels the empty glass between his fingers.

“I’m going to have to take you in.”

He waits, watching with amusement as Mitch smiles and tosses his phone into the lounge chair, sets his crystal glass carefully on a table with the champagne bucket. “Are you sure I can’t interest you in a drink, first?” Mitch asks.

It’s tempting, Scott can’t deny that. He shakes his head and takes out his cuffs. “I’m afraid not.”

With a dramatic sigh, Mitch holds out his arms, shaking his hands until the fur sleeves slide back a few inches to expose his bare wrists. He lowers his chin, gives Scott a teasing pout, and flutters his eyelashes again.

Scott takes a hold of one bony wrist, his grasp tentative and careful. Mitch just looks so fragile, overwhelmed by the luscious, fluffy coat.

Mitch seems to sense his hesitation; he looks up again and lets his lip slide through his teeth. He positions his tongue at the corner of his mouth, blatantly teasing. “Then cuff me, big boy,” he murmurs breathily. His excitement is tangible and it makes Scott groan.

“Turn around,” he mutters. He snaps the cuff around one of Mitch’s wrists and manhandles him over to the balcony again, pushing Mitch to lean his chest against it while he cuffs Mitch’s wrists behind him. He fits himself against Mitch’s back, pins him down. It’s windier here, with their faces over the edge of the balcony. Below, he can see all the flashing lights of ambulances and cop cars and paparazzi, and he knows he can’t waste time up here.

Scott ducks down and bites Mitch’s ear sharply before turning him back around. “You’re under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in the court of law. Do you understand these rights as I’ve read them to you?”

Mitch closes his eyes and sighs as he replies, “Yes, sir.”

Scott yanks him along. “Look me up when you make bail. Let’s go.”

 

 _fin_.


	2. Bail

Mitch comes out to the waiting room looking only mildly disheveled; his clothes are just as just as obnoxiously expensive, but they sag on his shoulders, the lines not pressed and sharp after being kept in storage. He’s remarkably fresh-faced, his cheeks slightly pink, subtle shadows darkening the skin under his eyes, and Scott realizes this is the first time he’s seen Mitch without makeup. All the red carpet events, all the paparazzi photos of Mitch out on the town, all the images Scott has looked up online to fuel his lust—Mitch has always been coiffed and made-up and impeccably styled. A tendril of excitement snakes through Scott’s stomach. Not many people get to see Mitch like this.

The haughty set of Mitch’s shoulders is just the same, though. Scott watches him sign his release papers and gather his things, looking bored by the whole process. When he’s done, Scott puts down his magazine and stands up, clearing his throat to draw Mitch’s attention.

It takes Mitch a few seconds to recognize him. Scott’s off-duty, out of his uniform, so he’s actually pleased that Mitch recognized him at all.

“Thought you wanted me to look you up, not the other way around,” Mitch says with a grin.

“Didn’t trust you to follow through.”

“You’re sweet, but…” Mitch’s gaze makes a slow sweep over Scott’s clothes—ripped jeans and a flannel shirt with cut-off sleeves, a simple tank top underneath. Scott stands tall and waits for him to make his assumptions. “Listen,” Mitch says, “I’m no hooker, but you can’t afford me.”

“You expect a certain standard of living?”

Mitch comes closer, shifts his baggie of personal effects to his right hand, and drags his index finger slowly down Scott’s chest. “You wanna be my bit of rough? I’m sure my dad would love that. Especially right after I get out of jail.”

Scott smiles slowly. “I’m the one who posted your bail.”

He’s watching closely enough to see Mitch’s expression freeze. There’s a flicker of confusion in his eyes, and his gaze slips back down, as if confirming that Scott is dressed like a slob. He recovers quickly, though his smile is unsure when he says, “Really? Well aren’t you just full of surprises. Got some deep pockets, big daddy?”

“Maybe I do,” Scott replies with a nonchalant shrug, “or maybe I just really wanted you to owe me.”

Mitch bites his lip and the teasing seductress persona settles on his shoulders, looking even more natural than the expensive clothes. “Still got those cuffs?”

Scott’s smile stretches into a grin. He shrugs. “If I need ‘em. Come on, let’s go.”

***

Scott drives them back to Mitch’s apartment. Mitch is a skilled liar and manipulator, and Scott wants to be extremely careful about what information Mitch is privy to; witnessing Mitch’s realization that he’s perhaps bitten off more than he can chew was delightful, and Scott hopes for a few more of those moments tonight.

Mitch’s posture relaxes when he steps through the door—newly fixed; someone’s been taking care of the place while Mitch has been away—and he immediately starts stripping off his clothes. He leaves them on the floor on the way to the bedroom: his boots, his pants, his jacket leaving a trail of breadcrumbs for Scott to follow. Mitch pauses at the bedroom door and rests his hand on the wall. His shirt is long enough to skim his thighs, and the sleeve extends over his palm. He looks surprisingly feminine, even with a few days’ worth of stubble on his chin.

“I can’t stand the stench of that place,” he sighs dramatically. “Baby, make me a drink while I’m in the shower.”

“’That place’ being jail,” Scott replies. “I know what you mean. So many men, so much… pent up frustration.”

Mitch’s expression darkens momentarily. He shrugs his bony shoulders whirls into the bedroom, calling, “There’s champagne in the refrigerator!” before disappearing into the darkness.

Scott leaves Mitch’s discarded clothes where he dropped them and heads for the kitchen. He puts ice in the champagne bucket and finds a bottle and two crystal glasses to recreate the scene of the night Scott arrested him. He takes everything out onto the balcony and sets it up just as it was—with the added bonus of himself, lounging in the chair. It’s only late afternoon, and the sun warms the breezy air enough that Scott is comfortable taking off his shirt. He leaves on his jeans and shoes, though, for effect.

When Mitch comes out to find him ten or fifteen minutes later, his short hair is freshly dried and fluffy, and he’s only wearing a pair of tiny, pink boxer-briefs. He crawls onto Scott’s lap like a cat, surprisingly lithe for someone so skinny and gangly. He rests his hands at the sides of Scott’s neck and leans in for an eager kiss, but Scott only allows it for a brief moment.

He grabs Mitch’s wrists and yanks them around behind his back. “You think you deserve kisses? You need to be punished first.”

“I just got out of jail. I think I deserve kisses at the very least,” Mitch replies with a petulant roll of his eyes.

“I just arrested you on a murder charge,” Scott says.

Mitch huffs and pulls at Scott’s grip on his wrists. “Ugh, it was self-defense,” he says, sounding bored. “If you’re not going to make this worth my time, the balcony’s right there. Maybe you’ll survive the jump.”

“You’re used to getting your way.”

Mitch sighs. “Are you gonna give me what I want or not?”

Scott smiles slowly. “You think I can’t handle you. Let me tell you, princess, you are sorely mistaken. You have no shame and no conscience and you need to be punished for your crimes. I don’t think you deserve any mercy.”

“No mercy, huh?” Mitch asks. His teasing posture has returned, even with his hands caught behind him. “Show me what you’ve got, then, officer. Punish me.”

Scott tightens his arms around Mitch’s body, twists his hands until Mitch winces. “You don’t need me to be careful with you, do you?” he taunts. “You just pushed your lover off your balcony. You’ve proven you’re big-time, now. You can take it, can’t you? Anything I dish out. You can handle it. You’re a cold, hard criminal, aren’t you, princess?”

Their noses are only an inch or two apart, and Mitch’s dark eyes are restless as he searches Scott’s face. Scott works hard to keep his expression still, to not let the sneer drop from his lips. It’s so tempting to close the distance between them and bite at Mitch’s parted lips, but he can’t make the first move. He can’t be the one to end this staring contest.

The sun is nearing the horizon and its orange glow makes Mitch’s eyes look warmer than Scott knows them to be. He wonders if Mitch feels any regret. If he possesses any sense of morality.

Mitch’s gaze keeps flickering. He’s trying to read Scott and he can’t, and it’s thrilling to be unknowable to someone as perceptive as Mitch. At long last, Mitch’s brow wrinkles and he drops his gaze. Scott lets go of his wrists.

“Bring the champagne inside,” he says. “This balcony is clearly too much of a temptation for you.”

As soon as Mitch climbs off him, Scott goes inside and scans the room. The headboard is a minimalist wrought-iron design, and thankfully there’s room to slip handcuffs around the bars. He bends to pick up the shirt Mitch discarded before his shower and rubs the fabric between his fingers. There’s not much give to it.

He rips off the sleeve as Mitch comes inside carrying the bottle of champagne. Mitch’s jaw drops. “That top was eight hundred dollars!” he cries.

“You’ll buy another one. Get on the bed.”

Mitch grumbles a little as he sets down the bottle on the nightstand and climbs up onto the bed. He sprawls there with his back against the headboard, his legs spread and bent in a way that looks too inviting to be unintentional, and assumes a bored expression while Scott stalks over to him. Scott grabs Mitch’s ankle and yanks him down until he’s lying flat. Mitch doesn’t struggle—instead, he grins and bites his lower lip.

“Finally gonna fuck me now, officer?” he asks.

“You gotta earn it,” Scott replies. “Turn over.”

Mitch is surprisingly compliant. He flips onto his stomach and waits patiently while Scott cuffs his wrists to the bed. He only jerks his hands twice when the cuffs are latched, as if to test the hold. He raises a mumbled objection when Scott wraps the torn sleeve of the shirt around his face, stretching the fabric taut between his teeth and pulling until it bites into his cheeks, but it’s more about the expensive—and now ruined—shirt than the gag itself. Scott can’t resist ducking down to bite his plush, wet lower lip now that it’s so exposed and on display for him.

The gag doesn’t do much more than muffle Mitch’s moan of pleasure, but Scott doesn’t want Mitch completely silent anyway. He wants to elicit as many desperate noises from Mitch as he can.

“Now, I think it’s time for your punishment,” Scott tells him. “You’ve got a lot to make up for.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, I think so.” Scott pushes Mitch’s knees under him, enough to raise Mitch’s hips and put his skinny ass on display. Scott rubs his palm over the tight pink briefs, feeling the warmth of Mitch’s skin through the fabric. He hums under his breath. “Surprised you wore underwear at all. I thought you loved having eyes all over you. You certainly expose yourself often enough for the paparazzi.”

Mitch’s reply is unintelligible, but his annoyed tone is all too clear and Scott laughs.

“Don’t even pretend you don’t love all those people looking at you. Taking pictures of you. Admiring you. You think it makes you special.”

“It ‘oes!”

“Of course it does, sweetiepie.” Scott slaps Mitch lightly. “You’re a special snowflake. You get everything you want and everybody loves you.”

In a fluid movement, Scott yanks Mitch’s underwear down to his thighs, where it works as a makeshift binding, and quickly spanks Mitch’s ass hard enough to make him squeal. There’s barely a difference in skin tone between Mitch’s legs and his ass, and the mental image of Mitch laying out in the sun completely nude makes Scott sigh.

He spanks Mitch again, and again, and again, and his tan skin darkens with a pink flush. Scott squeezes, feeling the heat radiating through his palm. He thinks about taking off his belt and really laying into him. He wants a reaction other than Mitch’s sharp, surprised shouts of pain. He wants to see real emotion.

Mitch is squirming now, his toes curled and his thighs tensed, and he keeps twisting to look over his shoulder at Scott. There’s spit coating his chin, dripping out of the corners of his mouth where the gag cuts into him. But his eyes are bright, almost playful.

Scott waits until Mitch has turned to face him before reaching down to his belt. Mitch’s gaze drops to it immediately, and his perfectly arched eyebrows flatten as he wrinkles his brow. The belt slithers free of Scott’s jeans and Scott gathers it in his right hand, and Mitch’s eyes find his again.

“I don’t think that was quite enough,” Scott murmurs. He trails the leather over Mitch’s arched back, down across the curve of his ass. “You think you can get away with everything. You think you can get away with murder.”

Mitch’s eyes soften but doesn’t even attempt to speak. His harsh breaths suddenly cease as he stares, waiting. He doesn’t object.

Scott swings. The looped end of the belt lands with a crack and Mitch wails, burying his face in his forearms. His cries are so strangled and raw that Scott wonders if he’s ever been beaten this hard before. Scott only lays a few more, turning Mitch’s skin a satisfyingly deep shade of red. He’s radiating heat when Scott pinches his ass, squeezes Mitch’s cheeks between his hands, and Mitch is gripping the headboard with both hands so tightly his knuckles are white. He’s panting hard, and Scott scrambles to get his underwear pulled down to his thighs while he’s distracted and unable to resist.

A few moments later Scott leans over Mitch, blanketing him with his entire body as he thrusts his cock into Mitch’s ass. He can feel how much it hurts by the way Mitch’s thighs are shaking and he exhales sharply through clenched teeth in an effort to slow down, give Mitch time to adjust.

He reaches around and lays his palm flat against Mitch’s throat. Mitch’s pulse is frantic and quick, so Scott doesn’t leave it there. Instead he drags his hand up underneath Mitch’s chin and stretches his thumb to pluck at the gag. He tugs it tighter and Mitch groans.

Scott puts his mouth close to Mitch’s ear. “Had enough yet?” he whispers. “You think you’ve earned some pleasure?”

Mitch whimpers. He shakes his head.

It’s a challenge. A game, even now.

Scott grabs Mitch by the hair and yanks his head up and back, using his grip as leverage to start pounding into Mitch’s ass. He doesn’t stop when Mitch cries out. He doesn’t even let go of Mitch’s hair until he hears Mitch’s desperate sobs.

He puts one hand back around Mitch’s throat and eases his pace to a slow, deep grind that rubs his hips against Mitch’s tender skin. He reaches under Mitch with his free hand and finds Mitch’s cock dripping wet with precome. Scott feels a surge of pride that he quickly hides with a bite to Mitch’s ear.

“Don’t you ever think I can’t handle you,” he says breathlessly. Mitch’s cock throbs in his hand and Scott strokes him with a tight fist, hoping to bring him off quickly. “I deal with criminals tougher than you every fucking day. You’re just a spoiled brat who needs to be taught a lesson.”

“Yeah!” Mitch shouts, rattling the handcuffs desperately.

Scott hisses in Mitch’s ear, “Daddy handed you everything on a silver fucking platter and this is how you act? Rich bitch with no conscience? You deserve to choke on that gag with my cock in your ass.”

It takes a few seconds for Scott to decipher Mitch’s whines: “I’m sorry,” he rasps through the thick gag. “I’m sorry,” over and over again, and finally, “Please.”

“Yeah, you’re sorry—mmm—come on, then, fuckin’ do it for me.”

Mitch comes after a few more strokes, with Scott thrusting and pushing him down into the mattress, and it doesn’t take Scott long to follow. He climbs off the bed on wobbly legs and allows himself this quiet moment to take in Mitch, beaten and exhausted, pink with bruises and covered in sweat and come. His eyes are closed and his chest is still heaving as he pants through the gag, but his expression is smooth and sated. Scott stares at him for just a moment longer. This is a sight so many people fantasize about, but not many get to see it. Scott feels the weight of that privilege.

The weight of responsibility settles on his shoulders too and Scott approaches the bed again, digs the little silver key to the handcuffs out of his pocket. He rubs Mitch’s reddened wrists with his thumbs. Unties the sopping wet gag from around Mitch’s face. Pulls Mitch’s bright pink underwear off his long, skinny legs. Stretches a blanket over Mitch up to his shoulders.

He slides into the bed and curls his hand possessively around Mitch’s hip, fitting himself against Mitch’s back from shoulder to thigh and follows Mitch to sleep.

***

“This champagne isn’t fizzy anymore,” Scott muses, shading his eyes with his hand so he can appreciate the view from the balcony.

In the lounge chair opposite him, Mitch shrugs. “There’s alcohol in my orange juice, so I don’t really care.”

Mitch is naked but for a pair of expensive sunglasses and a robe that’s open wide around his body, only covering the lower half of his arms. It’s too chilly for outdoor nudity, Scott thinks; the sun hasn’t had time yet to warm the air, but Mitch seems unconcerned. Scott watches him shift in his chair and settle with his hips cocked, no doubt uncomfortable sitting on his sore ass. He runs his thumb over a vividly red bruise on the opposite wrist. He digs his nail into the abrasion until he makes himself hiss with pain.

Scott splashes a bit more champagne into his mimosa. They’ve almost finished off the bottle from last night.

“I could blackmail you, you know,” Mitch says suddenly.

Scott sips his drink, unconcerned. When Mitch traces another bruise, one on his hip, Scott laughs.

“What?” Mitch asks. The tone of his voice is mildly offended, but there’s tension in his body, apprehension in the tilt of his shoulders, the way he curls inward ever so slightly. Scott unpredictable to him, unknowable. Mitch clearly isn’t used to not having the upper hand, and it scares him.

Scott likes scaring him. “I’m just amused that you thought I would come here if I didn’t have enough evidence on you to put you away forever.”

Mitch crosses his arms delicately over his chest. “My lawyer’s very good,” he says haughtily.

“Your lawyer’s in over his head with you,” Scott replies. “But don’t think for a second that I am too.”

Mitch gapes at him, but before he can formulate a response, Scott swings his legs over the chair and stands up. He stalks over to Mitch, grinning, and forces his way between Mitch’s legs, using his knees to push his bare thighs apart. He takes off Mitch’s sunglasses and puts them aside, and Mitch remains so still. Patient. Surprisingly well-behaved. Mitch blindly puts down his glass on the side table—it tips and clatters over, spilling sticky orange juice over Mitch’s wrist.

Scott grabs his arm and brings it to his mouth, and Mitch doesn’t resist. He stares up at Scott, barely breathing, as Scott licks the wet trail of juice off Mitch’s forearm. At the bony part of his wrist, where his skin is red and hot and tender, Scott closes his lips around the mark and sucks hard. Mitch inhales sharply, wincing, and Scott can practically taste the blood so close the surface.

He bites down on the mark.

Mitch’s hand spasms and his expression tightens with pain, his eyes clenched shut. But a fraction of a second later, Mitch turns his hand, exposing the vulnerable inside of his wrist to Scott’s teeth, his fingers loosely curled and waiting so beautifully.

Scott licks his lips. “I can see right through you. Don’t ever think you can play me.”

Mitch licks his lips too, more slowly, but it’s not a tease. Scott can see the gears turning, knows Mitch is considering Scott’s words, deconstructing their meaning. It’s not that hard to come to the conclusion that Scott isn’t bluffing. Mitch bites his lip and nods.

“Yes, sir.”

 

 _fin_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've posted commentary for Bail over on wattpad in my "Snapshots" book, if you'd like to check that out [here](https://www.wattpad.com/357396653-snapshots-bail-with-commentary)!


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